“Bullshit,” said Jackson. “I got as much right here as you do. I ain’t gonna grind it out in your damn refinery or down the mill for the next twenty years, waiting for a moment that just don’t come. I got dreams.”

“Kid dreams is what you got.” Jackson wasn’t expecting the lunge, and by the time he’d reacted his father had yanked his guitar away and smashed it against the iron fence with the pent-up fury of four decades. “Grow up, Jackie! Walk like a man, or go the hell home!”